


The Black Dragon

by AnneTaylor



Series: When Wolves Fall [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22583374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneTaylor/pseuds/AnneTaylor
Summary: There's a pregnant black dragon in Kovir. Yennefer needs to find her and save the dragon child.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: When Wolves Fall [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621207
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	1. Playing Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of Yen's search for her dragon. It was an interesting story. I had intended that she just find the dragon and take it back to the Nest, but in a very interesting twist, someone unexpected shows up in the cavern.
> 
> I wasn't expecting that. Let's just see where things go...
> 
> As always, feedback is much appreciated...

Yennefer sat in the corner of the common room of Elgar’s single inn. She kept her swords crossed at her back, uncomfortable to sit with but she was more concerned with looking intimidating than being comfortable. Her knee length boots were fitted with sheaths for a pair of slim, razor sharp daggers she purchased together with her swords, from Zee Silverthorn, who Imiri had pronounced the best swordsmith in the Northern Kingdoms.

It was probably hyperbole, but the quality of the goods was what made most sorcerers patronize the city when they wanted something created by non-magical means.

In any case, Yennefer was dressing the part. She had shed her blues for blacks and was now clad in unrelieved midnight. The better not to be seen when you don't want to be, and scary as hell when you do.

The two swords were a bit much and neither of them was silver, but not many people knew that much about Witchers to begin with, and often just the more well-known trappings were enough. Yennefer drank her beer and toyed with the medallion at her breast. She looked good. She looked the part.

She thought convincing people that she was the Witcher that they had sent for was going to be the biggest challenge she faced, but honestly, the biggest challenge was just to get through the evening without killing anyone.

The sneers. The people who crossed to the other side of the street to avoid her. The people who crossed to her side of the street to confront her. The time there was no room in the inn and half the windows were dark at eight in the evening. Being offered a bed of moldy hay to sleep on, and the bastard had the gall to charge her for it.

She almost lost the fight to indulge her nastier self and ram a wad of moldy straw right up his ass when he came waddling up the ladder saying “seeing how it's my barn, you owe me a wee bit of courtesy...”

She been right on the edge of telling him to drop his trousers when she decided this was a test to her dedication to the role, and she must regretfully pass. So instead she gave him a terrible scrotal itch, which took care of the problem quite nicely.

She'd fetched one of the newest “dragon eating our stock” notices from the Witcher board and tracked down the man who had posted it.

He was a sheep herder who had a farm southeast of town. Wendall Flats was his name. He looked a bit like a sheep himself; long nose, no chin to speak of, fluffy white hair and an amazingly vacant expression on his face.

“I knowed twaz a dragon cuz of the claws and tails draggin’ in the mud.” He chewed on a burning wad of grass twisted together and nodded his head agreeably at her. “Five sheep so f’r. Et ‘em up, skins and bones and what-not. Not even fewmets left behind. Could have used them for the corn hills. Heard they was good f’r that.”

“Show me the tracks.”

“Mostly washed away by th’ rain. Don't think they’ll do y’ much good.” At her look he added “but iffen y’ want t’ see ‘em I'd be pleased to be doin’ m’ duty.”

The tracks were weeks old. The dragon had apparently changed feeding grounds. A few more questions and some truly humiliating rounds of bargaining for the information _Gods, Gerald, must you go through with this every time you want information?_ revealed that the triggering incident was when a herdsmen was startled by the dragon and so badly frightened that he fell into a dry well and broke his neck.

Privately, Yennefer considered the world better off for the loss of someone so abysmally stupid that he would die in such a way, but the community had been quite upset.

Of course, they hadn't found him until he started to decompose. They assumed the dragon had devoured him and that's when they pooled their resources and sent for the Witcher.

Now that his corpse had been found, nobody was particularly eager that the bounty should be collected.

It was ghastly dreary. If she'd been able to simply summon a chaos storm and scare the living shit out of the unwashed peasants she wouldn't have had to spend all day tracking the facts down. But she had promised herself she wouldn't cheat, and would keep her identity a secret.

Where had the dragon gone? Borch had mentioned an underground river. Yennefer drew out her maps and studied the topography of the surrounding region. The Ithima and the Choppy River were the two best prospects.

The Ithima was closest to the town, only a couple of hours travel at the nearest point. Yennefer cheated a couple of times to span difficult patches of terrain, using chaos to help her run lightly over the top of them or to cut a path through. Mostly she just used her sword. Gods, it was tiring. And boring. And sweaty.

She was tempted to fetch Vandal but the thick undergrowth would have made land travel difficult and it would be much faster to travel by boat.

Besides, once she had the dragon engaged, the stallion would be just one more vulnerability to cover. Borch had said that it was feral. Little more than an animal.

What if he's wrong? What if it can be saved? Reasoned with? Did she not owe it to the dragon child to try and save her mother?

The river was wide and sluggish. The occasional whitehead sparkled, and far downstream she could see the shaggy bulk of a bear fishing on the shallows. Yennefer looked about carefully to make certain she wasn't being observed, and then went about the task of preparing a raft.

It was easy enough to find tree trunks of the right size and sheer them off with a bit of chaos. Binding proved more elusive, though. She finally stripped off a great deal of bark and some vines and simply held the logs together with magic, while draping the bark and leaves in such a way that it looked authentic.

A quick shove and she was on the river, being carried downstream. The bear gave her an indifferent look as she floated by, correctly identifying her as not-dinner.

The journey was surprisingly pleasant. There was little of the up-and-down of sea travel, and none of the fishy smell. The scenery was varied and changed quite rapidly. And there was always the option of an interruption at any time when it became necessary. Rapids were exciting and all it took was a little chaos to make sure all the pieces, including herself, stayed in their proper places.

The trees were casting their shadows almost the full width of the river when she heard the rushing sound. She had barely time to release the spell which bound the logs and push herself beneath the surface of the river as it roared through an opening in the cliff face that loomed up before her.

Momentary terror gripped her as she found herself in the dark, icy water buffeting her and no air or shore in sight. Stay calm. Don't panic-port. Gods knew where she would end up. She concentrated on keeping a cushion of force wrapped around her body, a good choice as her body struck the solid stone again and again.

Then she was out. She still couldn't see; it would have been nice to have the Witcher eyesight and not just the reputation, but at least she could breathe. She called light to her medallion and used the glow of it to orient on the shore.

It was a narrow ledge barely a foot above the water line, sometimes dipping below. Yennefer made her way downstream, carefully watching her footing, until the bank began to widen.

She lifted up the glowing pendant and looked about. The cavern that surrounded her was fifty feet tall, at least. The walls were damp and the floors slippery with mud. Drag marks crisscrossed the mud, obviously fresh.

I think I found the place Borch described, she thought.

Something slithered in the darkness. She flung out a ripple of chaos and the entire cavern lit up. As she had expected, a dragon crouched against the wall, wings extended, mouth opening, limbs crouched as it readied to spring upon her.

The glowing threads of light, hanging in the air like a broken spider web in the sun, caused the dragon to pause and draw back. Her mouth opened and closed, her tail lashing an agitated rage.

One jet black wing hung in ragged shreds. The faint hint of infection soured the air of the cavern. “It's all right...lovely girl,” Yennefer crooned. “I'm not here to hurt you. Let me have a look at that wing.”

She drew slow circles with curved fingers as she brightened the chaos strands further, causing them to drift slightly closer to the dragon. It hissed at her and raised its crest, backing away from her approach, wedging itself further into a crevice in the wall.

“Let me help you,” Yennefer murmured. “I'm not like the others. I've been sent by...”

Borch had a draconic name. Gerald had mentioned it once but Yennefer hadn't paid attention. She cursed herself. “I've been sent by Borch Three Jackdaws. He's a golden dragon. You know about those, don't you? They are your protectors. You can trust me.”

She took another step closer. The dragon reared up, with one wing like black velvet cloth, the other like shredded silk, and opened her mouth. Her throat swelled.

Yennefer barely had the time to bring up a shield before the roar of flame lit the cavern to almost unbearable brightness. There was no answering intelligence in the dragon's eyes, no sign that Yennefer's words were having any effect.

...just a savage beast...

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. Yennefer flung out loops of chaos, tangling the dragon wings, binding to its forepaws, the powerful hind legs, its face. The deadly jaws were forced shut.

The great beast struggled and cried out as she was brought down. Her limbs thrashed beneath the glowing bindings. Yennefer ran to her head and knelt down, stroking her eye ridges gently, crooning. “I'm going to take you to a wonderful place. You'll love it. No one will hurt you there.”

How was she going to transport the dragon? It was too big for a conventional portal. Could a larger one be constructed, a composite of several rings merged together?

It was a thing she had often theorized about over coffee, with Tissaia, one of those ideas that seemed sound in practice but the consequences of a mistake were both likely and dangerous.

In a mage war, crossing portals was a time-honored strategy guaranteed to destroy both portals, and anyone within ten paces.

Tissaia’s idea was to take multiple unanchored portals, fit them exactly against each other and then release the individual shapes of the portals so they could form a long pipe. Assuming that didn't blow up in a rather spectacular fashion, the resulting tube could be compressed and widened.

One of her students had tried it. It had taken days to remove the embedded glass from furniture and the walls of the green room. Most of the plants were shredded. And there was a new eel in the pool.

Yennefer had a different idea. Start with an unusually thick portal and force it to expand and thin, very slowly, working to maintain the shape and its perfectly spherical form.

She tried that one on a dusty mountain pass in the Mahakan Mountains. It had almost worked, until she was interrupted by an insane dwarvish mountaineer, who came pelting down the path and leapt head-first through her portal. That disrupted the spell and the portal exploded, the blast catching the manticore who had been chasing the man. Manticore parts everywhere. She still occasionally wondered who the man had been, and where he had ended up, since she hadn't yet set up the portal destination.

It might not come to that, she thought. Borch had said the dragon was close to spawning. If she could hold the dragon here, keep her supplied with food, get Borch in to talk to her and keep her calm...

“Looks like you managed to capture my dragon for me.”

Yennefer sprang to her feet and spun about.

There was a man standing on the edge of the chaos light. He had a crossbow pointed at her head. A medallion hung from his neck.

A Witcher.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer has been impersonating a Witcher to get access to a contract regarding the black dragon who bears her future child. She's almost got what she wants, and then a real Witcher shows up. They confront each other.

The Witcher had grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, a strong nose and a mustache. He wore a simple cuirass backed by a chain mail shirt, with a green undercoat beneath, stained leather trousers and scuffed boots. There were two sword hilts over his right shoulder and his wrists were protected by spiked wrist guards. He was older looking than she would have expected.

The man's eyes flicked from her to the dragon. His hand started to rise.

"Don't," Yennefer warned him. Chaos hummed at her fingertips.

He hesitated, obviously measuring her in his mind, then lowered his hand. "So you're the 'scary lady' who has been masquerading as a Witcher in Elgar. Well done. I never would have expected a sorceress. Lack of charred bodies, for one thing."

"It was difficult," she admitted. "I will say I've gained a whole new appreciation for the challenges of your occupation."

Surprise blossomed in his features and was instantly suppressed. He examined her closely. "Looks like you've done your research. Although one of those swords ought to be silvered."

"I was short on time. You've come to kill the dragon?"

"That's the contract I've come to fulfill," the man agreed. “You want the parts, I take it?”

“I want the dragon,” she told him. “Leave it to me, and we both get what we want. I’ve no need for your bounty.”

His eyes narrowed. “I need a token. To prove that the job is done. Something recognizable. A foot, or the end of the tail. You can spare that, can't you?”

“No. I need the whole dragon.”

His gaze was growing less guarded and more speculative. “What sort of spell requires an entire dragon for components? I tell you what. I'll make you this bargain. I don't take money for a job not done. Let me make the kill, and I'll be on my way.”

“Not acceptable.”

He smiled. “Shall we stop dancing about each other then? Draw me Yiro and we'll talk.”

Yiro was a simple sigel used for delicate negotiations which required deceptions to be exposed. It chimed in the presence of untrue. Not foolproof, but it tended to pave the way for trust. Yennefer drew the sign on the air, two downstrokes, one across and sealed with magic. Not her specialty, but she been asked to bring them up so often for Demavend that it felt like second nature.

“I was hoping to persuade the dragon to move elsewhere. Up to the mountains.” The Witcher crossed his arms and squared his stance, declaring neutrality of intent.

“I was sent to bring her to safety.” A tiny warning ting rang in the clear-air; she was withholding information. “Whether she wanted to go or not,” Yennefer added.

No ting. That was apparently close enough to be to the truth to satisfy the spell.

“I will not see it harmed.”

Yennefer gave him a puzzled look. “What is it with Witchers and dragons? You and Geralt...”

“Geralt of Rivia?” The man's eyes scanned her keenly. “You are Yennefer, then.” The corners of his mouth turned down sourly. “One of Hemet’s best customers, I hear.”

She wondered which assertion bothered her more, that she and Geralt were apparently joined-at-the-hip, at least in Witcher circles, or that she was known to be a frequent customer of a man whose most famous potions required dragon parts.

She decided that tackling the second issue would be more productive. “Not for some time.”

“So, this dragon is not going to end up in someone’s potions?”

For just an instant she was tempted. Borch had said the dragon was old. Once she died, Hemet would give Yennefer anything she wanted in exchange.

No. It would be as wrong in Borch’s eyes as using human body parts was to most humans. Personally, Yennefer couldn't see that it mattered, once a person died his body was just decaying meat, but people were funny that way.

She remembered the look on Geralt's face, one drunken night when he had told her about a young woman he been forced to kill, and then to leave her body to be dissected by a sorcerer. Privately, she had wondered why it upset him so much.

Maybe it's just that I've never lost anyone I cared about. She tried to imagine it; Geralt’s body, pale and rigid in death, Hemet offering to pay her for his corpse, for dissection or the potent chemical accumulations that would be in a Witcher’s organs and flesh. The thought made her breath hitch. “No dragon will ever end up in anyone's potions if I have a say in the matter.”

The witcher's eyebrows rose. “That sounds like an odd declaration of intent for a sorceress.”

“It does, doesn't it? But then the Brotherhood and I do not see eye to eye on many things.”

“Beginning to rub off on you, is he?”

“I beg your pardon.” Yennefer gave him a frosty look.

The man drew his sword. “Draw.”

Her sword had barely scraped free of its sheath before he was on her. He started with a beat attack, simple to counter if you were trained to expect it. A binding, which she escaped. Straight into a balaestra, which she recognized but failed to defend against. He turned it into a feint. His pris-de-fer was impressive, as was the dazzling moulinet which followed it. She tried every dirty trick she knew, but nothing got through his guard.

Finally, he disengaged, stepped back and gave her a brief salute.

“What the fuck was the point of that?” Arrogant bastard. It would have served him right to be burnt to Witcher dust.

“Just curious. Geralt does go on about you. You're not bad...for a sorceress,” he admitted. “But you weren’t trained by Geralt, were you?”

“Spent a few years as Demavand’s advisor. Kirell Hawkmein, his sword master, and I exchanged services,” she told him coolly.

“Lucky man.” The witcher's expression was amused.

Kirell. A smile touched her lips at the memory of his weather-beaten, stern face. The king's sword master had been as skilled with the one blade as he had been with the other. A gentleman in bed and a fucking demon on the practice field. They often took pleasure in tending to each other's bruises. “It was a long time ago,” she said, her voice thickening.

He had died, one crisp autumn morning in the practice yard. He and the king's heir, Stennis, had been sparring in their daily session. Kirell had given Stennis his sword, so he could get the feel of the longer reach. Stennis had managed to tag Kirell with a surprise move, a balaestra that left a slight cut on Kirell's cheek. Yennefer was certain that the blademaster had allowed it, to encourage the boy for his initiative. He couldn't have known...

"Were you the one who killed him?" Vesemir demanded.

"Yes." A bitter demon coiled inside her at the memory. Adder's Tongue was slow to kill, and there was no antidote. It was the weapon of a man who hated his younger brother very much. Tongue black and so swollen it obstructed his breathing, face twisted with the agony of his impending death, Kirell had placed Yennefer's hand over his heart. "Stop it," he had whispered to her. Yennefer stared at the ground until her eyes stopped prickling, body tense, waiting for the Witcher’s reaction.

The man’s eyes, to her surprise, held only sympathy. "I heard the full story from Kirell's senior squires. I also heard that you were the one who sussed the little bastard out."

He'd left fresh trace on the weapon, not knowing that it could be tracked magically by a determined sorcerer. And he'd hidden the bottle of poison inside the shoe of a student who was known to have a grudge against Kirell. Much too obvious. "Yes."

"And he was exiled to his country estate in Gulet under perpetual supervision of the crown for the crime of killing a commoner. Many people thought it was too severe a punishment."

"You're well informed. I thought you Witchers just sat up in your gloomy, mildew infested castle and did nothing but practice all day."

"Then he died. Choking on a chicken bone. A shame. Did you have a hand in that?"

"Of course not," she replied automatically. Yiro chimed softly. “Fuck.”

Vesemir laughed. "Saved me a trip. I'm Vesemir, by the way. I'm sure Geralt has mentioned me."

Geralt’s teacher and mentor. "Occasionally by name. Usually by some other term."

"I believe 'chicken-fucking bastard' was one of his favorites."

"He's moved on to larger barnyard animals."

"It's good to know the boy progresses..."

Yennefer examined him closely. “From his descriptions I would have expected someone larger and scarier.”

“I was. For most of his training,” Vesemir said. “Then he got taller and grimmer. It’s…hard to send them out into the world, knowing what it will do. You try to warn them. You can prepare them for the reality of how the world sees us…” He trailed off.

“But not how it’s going to make them feel?”

“Witchers have no feelings.”

Yennefer laughed. “That hasn’t been my experience. But I understand why you’d want people to believe that,” she added with genuine sympathy. Spit in a man’s face and he’ll tell you he’s waterproof.

Vesemir looked uncomfortable. “I was really hoping I’d hate you as much after I met you as before.”

“Meeting expectations isn’t one of my goals in life.”

“Consider it unmet.”

“The day is yet young, however. So, you were planning on heading up to Gulet and offing the little bastard, were you?” Yennefer asked casually.

Vesemir’s gaze grew wary. He didn't answer her.

“I thought that was against your Witcher code. You only kill monsters.”

“By many standards he was a monster.”

“You only kill unintelligent monsters. Or is that just Geralt’s interpretation of the rules? I always suspected he goes to extremes.”

“Weserly wasn't the brightest coin in the bag, was he?”

Yennefer smiled. “What were you planning on doing once you got here?”

“I'd have thought of something.” Yiro chimed softly. His expression turned sour.

“You had no pull with the king and no evidence to present. I doubt you had much chance of intimidating Weserly. He was as arrogant a little bastard as ever sat on top of the dung heap that was Demavend’s offspring. So, what were you planning on doing?”

“I don't know,” he admitted finally. “I hadn't gotten much past the decision that he could not be allowed to get away with Kirell’s murder.”

“So,” Yennefer let him see the anticipation in her eyes. “I solved an unsolvable problem for you. Unsolvable without violating your Witcher code. That means you owe me.”

“I'm already giving you a dragon.”

“I was here first,” she reminded him. “You're giving nothing but ground.” She approached him, letting her hips sway and her lips soften. “You owe me,” she repeated. She moved close enough that they could feel the heat of each other's bodies. “Don't you?”

“Maybe.” He refused to give more ground, staring down at her with his startling, golden eyes. “What did you have in mind?” His tone was more curious than lustful or wary.

She raised her head, looked full into his eyes and smiled. “I'll let you know,” she told him “when I want something from you.” Eyes half lidded, she spun about and walked away.

Dismissing him.

She heard a snort behind her. “I don't know whether to envy him or pity him.”

“You'll have to ask him the next time you see him,” she tossed over her shoulder.

She heard a chuckle and a splash and Vesemir was gone.

In the end it was Borch who provided the solution to the problem. He persuaded the dragon to flattened down and shimmy through the portal. Yennefer transferred her directly to the nest, as they had taken to calling the concave cluster of crystals. The dragon sank to the ground with a soft sight and closed her eyes.

“Is she all right?” Yennefer asked.

“She's spent.” Borsch looked down at her with pity and a touch of anger. “She could have been so much more.”

“Her daughter will be,” Yennefer promised.

Borch nodded. “The crystals will shorten the time she stays gravid. She will lay in a week, from all signs.”

Then there will be two of them. “Will they be aware of each other? As siblings? Do dragons have familial bonds?”

“Difficult to say. If they are raised with them, perhaps.”

“Is there a father?”

“Probably feral as well. There is no way to tell.”

“Do the species cross mate?”

Something passed over Borch’s face. Surprise. Or something else. “Not often. The ferals seek out their own kind.”

“What about the non-ferals?”

“It has been done,” he admitted. “If you don't mind, I have things to attend to,” he said lightly. “Excuse me.”

He strode to the edge and stepped off.

 _Have I just seen a golden dragon in retreat?_ Yennefer wondered. Well, perhaps he was a bit sensitive about matters of breeding. She settled herself on the ground next to the black dragon, stroking her face, and wondering when Geralt was going to return.


End file.
